The Library of Mysteries
by Elivra26
Summary: Deep in the innermost chambers of the Department of Mysteries, lies a collection of books unlike any other. This is a collection of the Never-Written, of Tangents and Side-Plots, of Discarded Drafts and Forgotten Ideas. Welcome to the Library of Mysteries. [Anthology of random scenes from the HP book universe. Aiming to be canon. Some swear words.]
1. Welcome

_62442_.

Welcome. Go ahead and state your name and purpose. Enunciate, please. You don't want to end up with a badge like Gertie Boue's.

You are now at the Atrium. Walk across, no need to rush, now. Time is just another Mystery where you're headed.

Get your wand checked, just a simple formality. Best not to turn up with a stolen wand, though, like poor Gertie Boue.

Into the lift. Any one of them. You'll have to go all the way to Level 9. Not too far, now.

The corridor is different now, colder, but don't let that deter you. There is a black door at the end of the corridor.

Think of what you want. The Library awaits, just as much as you pine for it. Turn the doorknob. The door will open.

Now, this is important. When you enter the circular room, DO NOT OPEN ANY DOOR. Other than the one on your right. If you do open some other door, well, good luck.

If you chose the door on your right, you should be in a vast, sparkling, tinkling room, filled with clocks of every size, type and provenance. Don't touch anything. DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. _DO NOT TOUCH THE BELL JAR._

Seriously.

There is a door at the end of the room, behind the giant Bell Jar that you must not touch. Don't go through that door. The Hall beyond is being reconstructed.

Instead, to your left, there is a book cabinet. Open the doors. Push the shelves.

Enter the room.

Welcome to the Library of Mysteries.

You are in a vaster, darker, quieter room. Shh. Some things are sleeping. Take care not to wake them.

Walk down the aisles to your heart's content. But _quietly_.

Here and there are chairs of varying degrees of support and softness. Pick your choice and sit down.

Seriously, sit.

And then, finally, when you're comfortable, the books will come to you themselves. Don't worry. They won't bite.

That doesn't mean they don't hurt, though.

See you on the other side.


	2. A Dying Breed

_A small, dirty little book flies to you out of nowhere. Its covers are a faded black, and it has no title. It flips open to a page three-fourths down, and you begin to read._

* * *

 _CRASH_.

The sudden sound was followed by another almighty clang as he dropped the candlestick he was polishing. He glanced ruefully at the perpetrator –a massive barn owl was flapping its wings outside the window, its feathers ruffled as though it had slammed into it.

"Nasty creature," he muttered as he unlocked the window. "You'll wake her with all this racket."

The ruffled owl huffed and deposited the _Daily Prophet_ onto the side table and screeched loudly for payment. He snarled at the owl for the noise and paid it the requisite Knuts, upon which the owl huffed again and took off.

As he latched the window shut, a voice came from behind him, "What is it?"

He turned around to see the old lady looking at him from the doorway, leaning painfully on her cane.

"Mistress, you must not leave your bed!" He gasped, hurrying over to her. "I apologize for the racket! 'Tis only the Prophet and no more."

She extended a shaky, gnarled palm at him. Wordlessly, he handed her the rolled-up newspaper with a deep bow. He watched her carefully as she unrolled it and read the front page. To his dismay, she gasped with shock and her hand flew to her throat.

"Mistress!" He cried. "Here, my Mistress, sit down, please!" Gently, he led her limping self to the nearest sofa, upon which she sank, her face still a mask of disbelief.

"There is news, Kreacher," she said slowly.

News? Could it be…?

"The Dark Lord is dead."

"Indeed? That –that is good news, yes?"

"Yes," she agreed slowly. Then she looked at him, the face he had long-since memorized in his head: that proud, autocratic bearing, the noble brow, the piercing eyes –all dimmed and marred with age and grief. "There is no mention of him. It is certain, then. My boy is dead."

His snout-nose quivered and the tears sprung into his eyes –oh, his Master, his poor young master. What had he done? Why was he the one to do it? Kreacher knew his Mistress was suffering just as he was, but while her suffering was a thousand times more than Kreacher's could ever be, she could never know what he knew, she could never know what her son had done as his last act.

The lady sighed and closed her eyes. "They will be here, they will be coming, from the Ministry. They will have questions. We must prepare to face them."

With a shadow of her old, cold energy, she rose to her feet. "Draw me a bath and set out my receiving robes. And the silver throat-clasp. Dust the hallway and the drawing room. Keep tea ready. We must be hosts as becoming our standing as one of the oldest and noblest Pureblood Houses."

He, of course, agreed readily, and set out to perform the whirlwind of tasks. They had stopped receiving people at Grimmauld Place for more than a year now, since the death of the Old Master, so now, things and tasks that were once familiar seemed surreally new to him. With the Mistress no longer in her prime and the dark, slow, silent grief that was all but consuming them, Kreacher found that it took him three hours to do that which he had always done in twenty minutes.

The rest of the day passed in restless inactivity as they waited for the inevitable inquisition. As he began to turn on the gas lamps, his Mistress stirred, fingering the heavy silver necklace at her neck sullenly. "I do not understand. Is the Ministry so ineffectual these days that they forget to-"

The doorbell interrupted her with a loud clang that made him start with fear. He turned to his Mistress –she had her familiar look of cool pride fixed on her face, and he was assuaged by its familiarity.

Thus emboldened, he scurried to the front door and opened it with a proud flourish. "Yes?"

"I'm from the Ministry to see Mrs. Black."

"The Mistress will see you," he said, bowing slightly and stepping aside. Kreacher narrowed his eyes as the man strode in. He did not like this man –not his tone, nor his prideful gait. His only redeeming factor was his impeccably neat appearance, which Kreacher shrewdly attributed to a diligent house-elf, which in turn implied a well-kept magical household.

The man halted at the end of the hallway and glanced around with undisguised disgust at the fading wallpaper. Kreacher hurried over to lead him away from the dark hallway into the more opulent drawing room. He had to hide a smirk when the man walked into the room –it was so obviously unlike the hallway, so rich and bright with luxury, that the man's look changed to one of surprise.

"Mrs. Black? Bartemius Crouch, Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

The lady stood up to greet him and gestured to a sofa. Mr. Crouch declined, bringing him further down in Kreacher's eyes, since etiquette demanded the lady remain standing as well.

"My cousin Charis married a Caspar Crouch."

"Indeed, many years ago. However, I am not here to connect family ties."

His Mistress drew herself up, so proud, so magnificent in her velvet robes and the emeralds glimmering at her throat! "I did not think so. Very well, begin your questioning. I will have you know I would never deign to-"

"Mrs. Black," said Mr. Crouch abruptly, "I am not here to question you. This is purely a formality."

His Mistress seemed to falter. "I do not understand."

"I hear you have not been in touch with the other… members of your social circle, so I don't think you know the news. Lord Voldemort is gone. We have won." The pride of the man, just simmering under the surface, seemed to brim over at this statement.

"I already know this."

"Indeed?" Mr. Crouch seemed to perk up, as though he could smell something different.

"I subscribe to the Daily Prophet."

"You surprise me," he said insolently. "Then my job is easier. You are already aware, of course, of your younger son's involvement in the Dark Side's murderous antics. You are also aware, I think, of his death."

"You are dredging up the past, Mr. Crouch."

"I ask you to bear with me for a few more minutes. His death last year had mostly been the stuff of rumour, and so I would like to officially confirm that he is indeed dead. His former colleagues have all testified to the same."

Kreacher could see his Mistress' hands curled into fists. Oh, the poor, grieving lady! "Your thoroughness and alacrity must be lauded."

"Thank you. I'm sure they will be." The self-assurance of the man disgusted him. "Now, moving on to the second matter."

"I thought there would be no questions?"

"There aren't. This is concerning your eldest, Sirius Black."

Fury all-too-familiar to Kreacher spread through his Mistress' countenance. With admirable self-control, she declared, "He is no son of mine."

Mr. Crouch shrugged. "Then it will not pain you to hear that he has been arrested and convicted to Azkaban for life."

Her face blanched, she swayed slightly and sank into the sofa behind her. Shock was making the blood pound in Kreacher's ears, but he rushed to his Mistress, his first and most important concern. "My lady Black!"

She ignored him completely. "Arrested?"

"As a traitor and a murderer. He killed a former friend and ally of the Ministry and the Order, Peter Pettigrew."

"Peter Pettigrew was his friend," she said weakly.

"Indeed, as I mentioned earlier. He has been charged with betraying the Potters, leading to their deaths and orphaning their infant son. Then when their friend Peter Pettigrew confronted him, he killed him and twelve other Muggles. He has been convicted, without trial, in accordance with the prevalent laws concerning crimes of this nature."

There was a small pause, and then -"That is not my son."

"I'm sorry?"

Walburga Black glared at Mr. Crouch. "My firstborn Sirius is a Muggle lover, a bloodtraitor, just like those Potters –that Potter woman was a Mudblood herself! Sirius denounced _my_ noble and pure line for those filthy riffraffs. He went back on every ancient tradition of this family and this household and _chose_ to consort with that –that scum! He has shamed me for being of my flesh, and he has shamed my blood and my name by insulting and mocking everything my fathers and their fathers before them have stood for!" Her voice, amplified with each word, seemed to echo in the grand room.

Mr. Crouch sniffed impatiently. "Your point being?"

"Sirius Black would not have murdered those Muggles."

"But Regulus Black would have?"

She stiffened, her eyes widening. "How _dare_ you. How _dare_ you take his name with such unconcern, such callous irreverence. Regulus was ten times the man Sirius ever could be!"

"And now Sirius won't be half the man he ever was. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has not one man left in its ranks." Still coolly insolent, Mr. Crouch dusted imaginary dust off his shoulder. "And I have said my piece, as required by the official regulations. Good evening, Mrs. Black."

With that he strode out of the drawing room and their lives forever.

* * *

 _The book snaps shut and floats away. Let it go. Never hold a book hostage. Ever._

 _Congratulations, you read the first book. Relax, drink some of that tea from the thermos you've brought along, and wait._

 _The stories will come to you._


	3. A Cold Dish

_You hear a far-off fluttering sound, as though that of a bird. And then you see it - a fairly thick book with a dark green cover and golden embellishments zooms into your outstretched hand. You only have time to notice that the golden flowers are lilies, but before you can read the title, the book flips open on page 321._

 _You try to see the cover, but the book doesn't let you. With a sigh, you start reading page 321._

* * *

In a large, circular, twinkling, twittering room sat an old man with a long silver beard, reading an edition of _Transfiguration Weekly_ in the bright sunlight filtering in through the large windows. Moments later, smart raps sounded on the door. A large, scarlet-and-gold-plumed bird squawked from his perch next to the desk at the sound.

"Enter," said Albus Dumbledore.

The door opened forcefully and a man strode in, clearly brimming with pent-up energy. A more careful observer would have seen that it was, in fact, pent-up rage.

"You wished to speak to me?" Severus Snape drawled in his oily voice.

"Sit down, Severus, I'll be with you in a minute."

True to his word, exactly a minute later, Dumbledore put down his magazine, placed his elbows on the table and his fingertips together and directed a very characteristic gaze at Snape.

Snape's frozen mask seemed to crack. "Well?"

Dumbledore shrugged slightly. and continued to stare at Snape.

The silence stretched for several long moments. Finally, Snape, getting more fidgety with every moment, burst out, "If you don't have anything to say, then I don't see why I'm here."

Dumbledore shrugged again.

Snape swept to his feet. "And if you're expecting an explanation for my actions, then you're not getting any." A beat later, "I don't owe you anything."

Dumbledore spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Don't you, Severus?"

"Don't you dare," Snape snarled, his fury brimming over. "Don't you _dare_ make this about her."

"I'm not making this about her."

Snape's nostrils flared. "You mean to say _I_ am?" He whipped around, choosing to look out of one of the windows, away from Dumbledore. "Is it so hard to believe I did it all for _myself_?"

"I believe what you choose to believe, Severus."

"Oh, save the riddles for Potter and his chums," Snape snapped. "They lap them up gratefully enough."

Dumbledore did not respond, which forced Snape turn back to face his boss.

"Fine," he said abruptly, approaching Dumbledore's desk, "Fine. You want to know why I did it? I did it because it was _justice_. Because they deserved it. For everything, every single day of torture they put me through-" He slammed his palms down on the desk; his dark eyes were shining, his countenance almost mad, his voice rising with anger. "They deserved everything I was going to bring down on them, and more! They made me miserable, hurt me, shamed me, mocked me, and worst of all, they… they-"

"Yes?" Dumbledore had leaned forward slightly.

Snape seemed struck dumb. He floundered for words, then spat, "They took her. Away from _me_!"

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly.

Shock flitted across Snape's face at being caught out. He straightened and said, in a carefully calm tone, "Fine. You were right. I did it for her as much as I did for myself. Be as that may," his eyes narrowed dangerously, "I regret nothing. Those flea-ridden mutts deserved it."

He swept away and paused at the door. "Did you do it? Did you help Potter save Black?"

Dumbledore remained silent.

Snape's fury was apparent again, but his voice was quiet. "Well, then. At least I took care of your werewolf problem for you. You're welcome."

And with a whirl of his robes, and a slam of the door, he was gone.

* * *

 _The book slams shut; this time you get to see the back -a beautiful golden doe surrounded by a cluster of golden lilies. The book waits a moment and then flies away. You lean back in the chair with a sigh._

 _And wait for the next one._


End file.
